


How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Sharmat

by Phosmerase



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Morrowind Main Quest, POV Third Person, Slow Build, Violence, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosmerase/pseuds/Phosmerase
Summary: As a Dark Elf born and raised in the Imperial City, the land of his ancestors is an unfamiliar, foreign place.But this is a second chance, and Tiberius is going to do whatever it takes to make it work.
Relationships: Male Nerevarine/Dagoth Ur, Male Nerevarine/Misc. Female Characters, Male Nerevarine/Misc. Male Characters, Past Indoril Nerevar/Voryn Dagoth
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Orders

The village of Seyda Neen could have been its own little plane of Oblivion, for all Tiberius knew.

The light streaming through the trees had been uncomfortably bright after so long spent in the hold of the boat, but even before his eyes had adjusted he could tell it had an unfamiliar, murky quality to it, nothing like the strong clear sun of the shores of the Imperial City. There was salt in the air, and beneath it the smell of damp and decay, like a body dredged up long after the point where it becomes unrecognisable.

He’d stood there for several moments, blinking in the light, until somewhere nearby something had let out a mournful howl, causing him to flinch back against the door of the Census and Excise office, his heart racing.

Suddenly he's been aware that, for the first time in four years, he was no longer a prisoner. That there were people out here – actual people, not just guards and jailors and soldiers – and at some point he was going to have to go and talk to them. Like an outsider to his own body, his mind had shown him a vision of how he must look: a small hunched figure with filthy sackcloth clothes hanging off his thin frame, with bat-like ears sticking out of his tangle of unwashed hair in either side of his round, grey, grubby face. And with it, had come wave of disgust and self-loathing.

It had almost been enough to have him clawing his way back into the office, but that would have been like walking back into a wolf’s den. Instead, he had backed up against the rough stone wall and followed it around and out of sight of the small village square, with the wrapped package and small coin-purse he’d be given clutched to his chest like a shield.

The courtyard wall had led him to the lighthouse steps, and now he sits at its base, perched on the top step.

He’s counted the money. Twice. More to have something to do with his hands than because he doubts the number.

Eighty-seven septims.

Back in the Imperial City Waterfront, that amount could keep you fed for a good few weeks if you knew what to buy, and who to buy it from. He’d spent months scraping by on a fraction of that when jobs were scarce, eating nothing but coarse rice, or millet, or barely – whatever was cheapest that week – boiled soft and portioned out between the three of them in their makeshift home in the tunnels beneath the city.

What he has in front of him is more than he’s ever held at one time, even during the few times where there were jobs to be had and he’d been earning something almost every day. The money had never accumulated; when you’d finished hauling barrels for fourteen hours, it was far too easy to turn around and throw away all the money you’d just earned on a dry mattress, a warm meal, and enough ale to make sure you’d sleep, just so you could wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

What does eighty-seven septims get you here? He has no idea how long that money will last, and he’ll likely waste a lot of it finding out. The damp ground has already soaked through the foot-wraps they’d given him, just from his brief walk to the lighthouse; he needs new shoes, certainly, and so mentally deducts a generous five septims from his small hoard.

He has a dagger at least. It had been a split-second decision to grab it as he made his way out of the Customs and Excise Offices. He’d tucked the blade into the waistband of his pants and pulled his shirt down over the hilt, hoping the rough fabric would hide it from the guards, moving carefully so the bare edge wouldn’t cut his leg.

Now it’s hanging by his side from in a loose knot around the hilt, fashioned from what length he could spare from his rope belt. Not as good as a proper sheath, but he can still get at it in a hurry.

He carefully counts the gold back into the bag, and tries to figure out what to do next.

For three years, he’d had next to no choice in his life. His world had been the few square feet of his cell, and then the back of the carriage, and then the small space in the hold of the boat. But suddenly the whole world is in front of him. He could go anywhere he wanted, do anything he liked, and he has no idea what to do.

Well, not quite. He has orders. Balmora. A man named Caius… Cosaius? No, Cosades. Another imperial, no doubt.

There was always the option of ignoring those orders – if he headed off in the opposite direction, how far would he get before they stopped him? Whatever was in the package he’d been told to deliver couldn’t have been that urgent, or that crucial, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent it off in the hands of a released prisoner.

He’d been so disorientated from the sudden departure from the boat, and the barrage of questions that followed once he was lead into the office, that he’d barely been able to do more than numbly nod to show that he was listening. So terrified of the armoured Officer in the next room that all he could to was to stammer a few responses and take the items that were handed to him before bolting out of the door.

Now that he has the relief of a moment to think, he wishes he’d made more of an effort to listen. All he’d really been able to process at the time was that he was now in Morrowind. The folded sheet of paper that he'd been given is lying on top of the parcel, unread.

He picks it up – the outside is completely blank – and unfolds it;

> _“Tiberius_
> 
> _You have been given these directions and a package of documents. Do not show them to anyone. Do not attempt to read the documents in the package. The package has been sealed, and your tampering will be discovered and punished._

He can’t help but stop to look over at the package sitting on the wooden deck, his fingers suddenly itching to do exactly what the letter has told him not to. The leather cord around it is neatly tied, but he can’t see anything special about it – there’s no fancy knot or wax seal holding it closed.

He forces himself to look back at the letter:

> _“Follow these directions._
> 
> _Proceed to the town of Balmora in Vvardenfell District. Report to a man named Caius Cosades. He will be your superior and patron; you will follow his orders. His residence is not known, but ask at the cornerclub called "South Wall". People there will know where to find Caius Cosades. When you report to Caius Cosades, deliver the package of documents to him, and wait for further orders._
> 
> _Remember. You owe your life and freedom to the Emperor. Serve him well, and you will be rewarded. Betray him, and you will suffer the fate of all traitors_

The man in the office - the man who had given him the package - had told him he was free, he remembered that much. But clearly it’s a freedom on Imperial terms. He’s not a soldier, has sworn no oath to the Legion, and yet they’re giving him orders as though he’s already accepted their gold.

Well, he kind of has – but it’s not as though they gave him a choice! He wants to rip the damn letter apart. Shred it unto little pieces and grind in into the swampy ground.

He doesn’t – it’s written on nice paper, thick and smooth and almost certainly expensive, and even if he can’t exactly _sell_ it, there’s plenty of space left to write something else if he needs to make notes.

He scans the last few lines disinterestedly:

> _“I have the Honor to prepare this at the direction of his Most Sovereign Majesty the Emperor Uriel Septim,_
> 
> _Glabrio Bellienus_
> 
> _Personal Secretary to the Emperor”_

It means nothing. Everything is always “at the Order of the Emperor” this, or “at the Discretion of His Majesty” that – he knows well enough that this was probably written by some lowly clerk, and at the very most this ‘Glabrio Bellienus’ had put his mark on it without reading it.

That doesn’t mean he can ignore it though. The Empire is nothing if not good at delegating the handling of criminals.

Tiber gathers up his meagre belongings, trying the coin purse firmly onto his belt alongside the dagger. The money isn’t doing any good in his purse; he needs to figure out what to spend it on.

New clothes, for sure. The shapeless sackcloth garments he’s wearing had been mostly clean when he’d been given them over a week ago, but had since picked up the filth from where he’d been sitting in the cargo hold. Not to mention he’d spent much of the boat journey throwing up from the rolling and heaving of the ship.

Between the nausea, the bad dreams, and the uncomfortable ringing in his ears that had got worse the longer they were at sea, the whole trip had been torture. The other dunmer passenger had tried to help, but there had been little he could do except keep passing him water to sip.

The smell of stale vomit still seems to linger, even though he’d managed to avoid getting any on himself. Even with a bag of coins, he’ll make a bad first impression looking and smelling like a beggar. Although – the thinks, looking out at the huddle of decrepit shacks that squat in the bay, barely out of the water with distaste– if he stayed here he’d probably fit right in.

~

Tiber walks heads back into the centre of the village with the goal of scouting out the local shops and getting some directions. As he’d feared, he’s drawing a bit of attention, both because he’s a stranger and because he’s wandering around, looking at everything with no apparent aim. He knows he’s not doing anything wrong, but everyone is undoubtedly expecting for him to start robbing them blind the moment they turn their backs, and so he keeps his head down and tries not to act too afraid of the very Imperial looking guards. At the same time, he keeps a close eye on his own coin purse.

The first shop he finds is in the village square; a faded sign indicates that the two-story building across from the Censes office is a tradehouse. He pauses for a moment, but decides to first see what alternatives there are, and carries on over the small footbridge.

The buildings at the far end all seem to be houses – they all have the doors shut but for one, which has a dark elf man sitting in the doorway, descaling fish. Tiber slows down as he passes on his way back to the square, wondering if he should ask for directions, but the suspicious squint the man gives him kills his nerve and he continues past instead. He wanders down to the shacks by the water, making a circle around the rickety platforms, but again can’t see anything that looks like a trader, just more dark elves sitting around talking or doing small chores. They watch him carefully as he walk past. He’s not used to seeing so many grey faces.

With nothing else to do, he heads back to the tradehouse in the village square.

~

The close atmosphere of the shop immediately makes him feel more at home. It’s still different - foreign - but it’s a vast improvement from the overwhelming greenery of the swamp on the other side of the door.

“Welcome to Arrille’s Tradehouse” announces the high elf standing behind the counter. “I’m Arrille. I run the general goods store here in Seyda Neen if you need wares, otherwise if you’re here for the bar it’s upstairs. Are you looking to buy something?”

Tiber takes in the well-stocked room; it seems promising, but he’s wary of committing to buying things unnecessarily. He’d like to have a browse, but doesn’t want to be pressured into parting with any of his recent windfall before he knows exactly what he needs.

“Um, not right now. Maybe later.”

“Hmph. Well, I’ll give you a little advice for free; your money will serve you better spent on equipment than it will lining your coin purse. Would you like to hear about our most popular potions? Our most popular scrolls?"

“No, no thanks.” Tiber says, and hurries past the mer and up the stairs before he can get caught by another sales pitch.

The tavern is nearly empty. Yet another dark elf is standing behind the bar, wiping out tankards, and he pays no attention to Tiber. The only other person is a large blond man sitting at a table with a drink in his hand, dressed head-to-toe in Imperial Legion armour.

Tiber is about to head over to the bar, when the man calls out:

“Hey, kid!”

Tiber hesitates.

“Come over here!”

Reluctantly, Tiber lets his feet take him over to where the Legionnaire is sitting.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the man asks once Tiber’s standing in front of him.

He’s a nord at least, not an imperial, but Tiber still feels himself instinctively shrinking away from him, trying to make himself unnoticed.

“Yessir.” He mumbles.

“Oh, an outlander too. Don’t look so scared, you’re not in any trouble. You just looked like you could use a friend. Perhaps I can be your friend.”

Tiber clenches his hands to stop them shaking, and waits for him to get to the point.

“I’m looking for someone to help me recover some gold. See, I had a bad run of luck playing Nine-holes, and-“ 

“No thank you.” Tiber cuts him off. Whatever this is, he wants no part of it. Whether it’s a scam, a setup, or just someone taking advantage of a hapless newcomer, he has no desire to aid a member of the Legion if he doesn't have to.

“I’d be a pretty easy job, I’m sure you could manage” the nord presses.

“No, sorry.”

“Well, if you change your mind the job’s still open. I’m Hrisskar Flat-Foot, in case you need to ask for me. What’s your name, lad?”

“Tiberius.”

“That’s an odd name for a dunmer. Was your dad an imperial or something?”

Tiberius grimaces. “I hope not” he replies without thinking.

But the nord thankfully doesn’t take offense at this slight against his fellow infantrymen.

“Hah! Between you and me, I wouldn’t want to be the son of an Imperial either. You’ll fit right in here with the natives once you get out of Seyda Neen. So, that accent. You from Cyrodiil?”

“Yeah, I guess” Tiber replies. Relieved that the man hadn’t continued trying to get him to work for him, some of the tension starts to leave his shoulders.

“You guess? Either you are or you aren’t. Whereabouts in Cyrodill?”

“Imperial City.”

“Huh, most of your kind don’t get further than Cheydinhal. You’re a long way from home then. What are you doing on Vvardenfell?”

“Er, employment.” Now the conversation is starting to remind him uncomfortably of an interrogation, and he hurries to move the topic away from himself. “Tell me, where’s there to buy stuff around here?”

“You’ll be wanting Arrille’s, just downstairs.”

“Where else?”

“That’s it, unless you’re looking to buy fish, in which case just find anyone out by the shore with a net and a bucket.”

“There’s only one shop?”

The nord scratches his beard. “’Fraid so. He’s got some contract with the Hlaalu that gives him exclusive trading rights. We do get travelling merchants every month or so who are allowed to set up in the main square, but they’re not expected back for a few weeks. What were you looking to buy, anyway?”

“Shoes. Clothes. Basic equipment.”

“Arrille will do you just fine if you’re not too fussy, he’s got a good bit of everything and his prices fair. If you want something specific you’ll have to go to Pelagiad. Or Balmora, if you don’t mind Hlaalu prices.”

Tiber’s ears perk up. “Balmora. It’s fairly nearby?”

“I wouldn’t say near, it’s a good day’s walk up over the ridge. But it’s not too far either. It’s on this side of the island, at least. Pelagiad is on the way if you’re taking the main road, so I’d recommend you stop there first.”

“And after… Pelagiad?”

“Gets a bit trickier, you have to cut across the ashlands for a bit. I don’t know the area myself. You’d be better off talking to Elone, she’s over there all the time on her days off. Scout. She’s the bartender here, but only in the afternoons, so you’ll have to wait a bit. Or you could just take the silt strider.”

“What’s a stilt strider?”

“ _Silt_ strider.” The nord corrects him. “And what do you mean ‘ _what’s a silt strider’_ , how long you been in Morrowind?”

Tiber shrugs. “About an hour?”

The nord lets out another bark-like laugh. “Figures! Look, just go over the bridge and up the road a short ways. You can’t miss it.”

“Right. Thanks” Tiber replies, already edging away. “I’ll just go and do that then. Bye.”

He bids a hasty retreat down the stairs and out of the building.

~

The water surrounding the Imperial City was a plentiful source of food for its inhabitants, providing not only fish and crab but also shrimp and crayfish, which were especially common as a cheap meal for the dock workers. However, in all his time eating the many-legged creatures dredged up from the shores of the Waterfront District, Tiber had never once imaged that someday he’d meet one of them that looked big enough to eat _him_.

He cranes his head up at the silt strider as he approaches. The large shell of the creature, silhouetted against the sky, is swaying back and forth like a ship moving in the waves. Looking at it too long makes Tiber feel like _he’s_ the one moving, and brings on a wave of nausea.

He wonders if he’d be expected to ride on top of the shell as though it’s some kind of giant horse.

There’s a dark elf sitting on of the platform by the creature’s head, her hands busy with a length of rope. She doesn’t look up as Tiber climbs the steps up to her.

“Good morning, miss!” Tiber calls out. He puts on what he hopes is a pleasant smile, but his face feels reluctant to shift out of anything but his habitual scowl, and it probably come off looking more like a grimace.

The other dark elf does not smile back.

“What do _you_ want?” she asks, the emphasis on the word ‘you’ conveying everything she thinks about Tiber’s outward appearance.

“I heard you can take me to Balmora? On your bug? Silt strider.” Now he’s closer to the thing, he can see there’s a sort of hollow in the top of it, big enough for a few people to sit in, and he guesses that’s where passengers would ride. The idea of riding _in_ a giant bug is no more appealing than riding on it.

The dark elf woman gives him a cool stare. “I offer transport, yes. For a fee.”

“Transport” Tiber echoes. “Okay, great. So how much would it be to go to Balmora?”

“For you? Forty drakes.”

“ _Forty_?! That’s ridiculous!”

The dark elf’s frown deepens into a scowl. “I assure you, _serjo_ , you won’t find any cheaper transport around here. Forty is a fair price. If we left soon, I could get you there by this evening.”

“If it’s that a short a journey, I don’t see why it should cost so much.”

“My route goes up the river; it’s much more direct than by road. And it may be a short journey, but it’s twice as long for me since I have to come back.” The caravaner replies.

“Okay, but I’m sure you can give me a better price than that. How about thirty?” he offers, although the thought of parting with even thirty coins still makes him cringe.

“And what if while we’re gone someone else comes along, someone who would have paid the full price? I’ll have I’ll have lost out on a full fourth of the fee.”

“You’re not making _any_ money if nobody uses your services.”

“My earnings are none of your concern, _outlander_.”

“Well I’m sure there’s plenty people here with a boat who’d like some of my coin.”

“There might be” the caravaner says “but I’m the only one here with a permit to take passengers up the Odai. Nobody’s going to risk it for a handful of drakes.”

The idea of just walking to Balmora is starting to look much more appealing. For the price the woman is asking he could have bought transport from the Imperial City to any of the other major cities in Cyrodiil, a journey that took several days. Admittedly he would have been packed into cart with other travellers, but it’s hardly _his_ fault that this caravaner has set up in somewhere with so few customers.

He has a sudden thought: “Okay, what if somebody else needs a trip to Balmora too? Does each passenger pay the same amount?”

“The cost is forty, plus five per additional passenger.”

“So if someone else is going to Balmora, I’ll only need to pay five, right?”

The dark elf gives him a flat stare. “If you somehow manage to find the willing travel companion, the total fee will be forty-five drakes. It will be up to you and the other passenger to settle where the money comes from.”

That could work; all he has to do is find someone else who’s planning to go to Balmora and propose to help cover the cost. If he offers to contribute ten septims – _maybe_ fifteen if the worst comes to the worst – then they’ll be getting a discount on _their_ transport too.

He’s not going to pay the full fee though, he decides as he heads back into the village. He supposes that the money he was gives was _meant_ to be put towards the travel cost for delivering the package, but if they’d been expecting him to spend half of it just doing the job then they haven’t left him much to live on.

And he doesn’t even _want_ to take a trip in a giant flea.

He kicks out at a nearby rock and immediately regrets it as a sharp pain shoots through his toes. If he does end up walking, he needs some proper boots. His foot-wrappings squelch against the cobbles with every step, all the way back to the square.

~

At the tradehouse the nord, Hrisskar, is thankfully absent. The dark elf behind the bar has been replaced by a much friendlier looking redguard woman, who looks up as Tiber approaches.

“Hello,” she says, “is there something you need? Go ahead. You're not interrupting anything.”

“Are you Elone?” he asks.

“That’s me.”

“I was told you could give me some directions?”

“Yes, I can do that. I’m a scout by trade, at least when I’m not working here, so I know the local area well. Where are you heading?”

“I need to go to Balmora.”

Elone leans forward on the counter. “There’s two main ways to get there. You can walk it fairly easily, there’s a good road most of the way. Or you can speak to Darvame Hleran at the silt strider landing; she can take you there a lot quicker if you’ve got the cash.”

“I’ve already talked to her” Tiber says. “Actually, I was wondering if there’s anyone else planning to go to Balmora? So we can split the cost?”

Elone thinks for a moment. “No, sorry, I can’t think of anyone who’s heading that way. We don’t really get many visitors here, mostly just Legion officers stopping off on the way to the forts.”

“Anyone else I could try asking?”

“Arrille downstairs might know, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Oh. So, what’s the way by road?”

“It’s about a day and a half’s walk. The first part’s easy; you just leave the village by the north bridge and follow the road over the mountains until you reach Pelagiad. After that it’s a bit trickier.” She rattles off a series of directions and names that Tiber can barely keep track of. “I can write it down for you if you’d like?”

“That would be really helpful, thanks. But I don’t have any paper or stuff.”

“I’ve got some here somewhere.” Elone rummages around under the counter, and comes back up with some kind of old ledger and a pen and inkpot. Opening up the book, she tears a small strip off of the bottom of one of the back pages, and then writes on it for a few moments.

“I’d also recommend getting a map. Arrille should have one for sale. Here you go.” She passes him the slip of paper. “That look clear enough?”

“Yeah” he says, scanning the small neat handwriting. ”How dangerous is it going to be? There aren’t bandits around here, are there?”

“There’s sometimes smugglers hiding out in the swamp, but you’re unlikely to meet any trouble on the road. The Legion patrols them pretty well. Could be a few animals, rats and other vermin. Best thing to do is to keep your eye out for them and just give them a wide berth. Can you fight?”

“A little. I have a dagger.”

“Hmm. I think you’ll be fine. Just be cautious, and don’t hesitate to run if you meet any trouble.“

“I will” he says. “Thanks.”

“Are you planning to leave soon? You’ve got plenty of time to get to Pelagiad today, but then I’d recommend staying there until morning. Don’t go wandering off into the foyadas at night or you’ll get lost. Then if you leave Pelagiad early tomorrow you’ll have time to get to Balmora well before nightfall.”

That sounds easy enough. He’s wary of leaving this little scrap of civilisation all by himself, but Elone’s directions look fairly simple; he thanks the woman and heads back downstairs.

Going by road is looking more and more like the best plan. He _needs_ those forty septims, and he’d be more than happy to be paid that much for a day’s wage, so he reasons it only makes sense to _save_ forty septims if it just means taking an extra day to get to his destination. He’ll have to walk, but quite honestly he’d rather go on his own two feet than ride in the back of that silt strider creature.

He still asks Arrille, anyway, whether anyone else is heading in the same direction.

“Not that I know of” the high elf says. “It’s really only the Hlaalu retainers who travel between here and Balmora. Now, are you going to buy anything or not?”

“Yeah.” Tiberius replies. There’s an oddment of items on the shop counter in front of the mer. Weapons, armour, clothes. Various household goods. A lot of Arrille’s stock seems to be Legion surplus, which Tiber would want nothing to do with even if he was looking to buy armour. There are also several axes and maces, most of them old looking and specked with rust, but his eye is drawn to a sword in a worn leather scabbard. He points at it.

“Can I have a closer look at that sword?”

Arrille picks it up and offers it to him, still sheathed.

His friend Cirellion had owned a sword. It had been a silver saber, altmeri design - he’d told Tiber - that had belonged to his mother. Even putting aside the sentimental value, it was easily the most valuable thing the high elf had owned, and spent most of its time on the ledge above his bedroll with a few other keepsakes. He’d rarely worn it, but the few times he had Tiber had thought he looked especially handsome and dangerous with the ornate black scabbard at his hip.

Tiber had always wanted to try holding it, but Ciri had refused the one time he’d asked, and he had never dared ask again.

Tiber takes the offered sword in both hands. It’s heavier than he’d expected it to be, or else the last few years must have left him even weaker than he’d thought.

Grasping hold of the hilt, he draws it out of the scabbard.

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. Maybe part of him had hoped that just having a sword in his hand would feel _right_ , that it would grant him a sudden sense of proficiency and power. Instead it just feels like an unwieldy stick of metal that he has no idea what to do with.

He shifts the hilt in his palm. The leather beneath him fingers is worn smooth and moulded by use to the shape of somebody else’s hand and there’s no way Tiber can find to grip it that doesn’t feel wrong. Maybe this sword is not meant for him.

Maybe it’s just not a very good sword.

He awkwardly fits it back into the sheath, and hands it back to the shopkeeper, trying to hide his disappointment.

“Perhaps not” he says. And then: “Do you have any boots?”

Tiber spends the next half an hour trying on the variety of boots and shoes that Arrille has in stock. There’s a pair of lightly worn boots with nice buckles that would be perfect, except that after slipping them on and taking a few steps he realises they’re slightly too small, and if he wears them his feet are going to end up painfully cramped. There’s a pair that also in good condition, but are so big that his feet slide around in them with every step, even laced up as tightly as possible and worn with two pairs of thick socks, which Arrille grudgingly provided only on condition that he bought them afterwards.

There are a few pairs of light shoes, but they’re all far too flimsy, designed for city wear rather than travelling cross-country. His only other options are a scruffy and much worn pair of boots that have obviously been repaired a few times, or a pair of iron greaves.

He’s striding round the small area of the shop in the greaves, trying them out again one last time but coming to the inevitable conclusion that they’re too heavy for him to comfortably walk in, and that he’s going to be stuck with the shitty repaired boots that probably leak.

He takes them off and instead puts the old boots up on the counter, alongside the socks and other items he’s already put aside to pay for. He leaves his feet bare; there’s no point in putting his sodden foot-wraps back on.

“These’ll have to do” he sighs.

Arrielle glances up from where he’s been sorting through scrolls, and only huffs in response. Seeing the paper reminds Tiber of Elone’s advice though;

“Oh! Do you have a map?”

“Of where.”

“…Er, here to Balmora?”

The mer heads over to the pile of books and picks out a thin tube of paper. Tiber grabs for it, but the mer holds it out of reach.

“Are you actually intending to buy this?”

“Of course! If it’s any use that is. I’m not paying for it without seeing it first.”

With a slight frown the elf hands it over. Aware of the disapproving eyes on him, Tiber hurriedly unties the scroll and rolls it out in front of him on the shop counter. It shows a roughly round shape of an island, with more land below it and to the left.

In the centre is a group of little triangles which he guesses are meant to be mountains, although they’re identical to the triangles in the sea area that are representing waves. The island itself isn’t named – instead across the centre of the island where you might expect the name of the continent, the slightly blurred woodcut letters spell out the name “Red Mountain”.

Around the edges of the landmass are lots of other names in smaller letters, none of which he immediately recognises.

His eyes are still scanning the paper when Arielle’s hand comes down on the centre of the map, obscuring it from view. “The map is one drake.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll buy it” he relents.

Arrille rolls the map back up and puts it with Tiber’s other selections. “Is that everything?”

Tiberius surveys his new acquisitions. Boots; socks; a spare shirt, pants, and a jacket, cheap and worn but a big improvement over what he’s wearing currently; a few sets of linen underclothes; a clay water-flask with a strap to hang over his shoulder; some dried meat wrapped in waxed paper; a small ball of string; a tiny bottle of ink with a few quills and a some sheets of rag-paper. A small bedroll consisting of a leather mat and a felted blanket; a canvas bag to carry everything in.

“That’s everything” he echoes. “That’s thirty-two sep- er, drakes, wasn’t it?”

“Thirty- _six_ drakes was what we agreed on, if you want the scrib jerky as well.”

“How about thirty-four for the lot?”

“Thirty-six.”

“Thirty five and a half?”

“ _Fine._ ” Arrille throws up his hands in exasperated defeat. “Just get out of my shop.”

Tiber hands over thirty-six gold coins, and the tradehouse owner hands back a couple of smaller coins as change. They’re not the copper pennies he’d been expecting; instead they’re a dull grey like steel. On one side they have a variety of stylised figures; on the other they all have the same design of a triangle with squiggles. Hoping he’s not been short changed, but with no real way to know, he slips them into his coin-pouch with the remaining septims.

As quickly as he can, he puts his new boots on and bundles everything into the bag alongside the package for Cosades. He’s temped to ask if there’s somewhere he can change into his new clothes, but decides not to push his luck, and instead takes his leave.

~

With no reason to stay, he quickly makes his way up the road out of the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome!
> 
> This is a fic that I've been writing on and off for a while, and I decided it was time to just go ahead and start posting it. A lot of it is planned out, decidedly less of it is finished (because that's the hard part). I'm going to try to update at least every other week. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated and I'm fine with constructive criticism.
> 
> Or just throw it a Kudos to show you're interested. Those are appreciated too.  
> 


	2. Encounters

On either side of the path the soft earth falls off into stagnant pools, full of dead leaves and brown sludge, but the road itself is broad and well maintained – kept free of the overgrowth either from frequent footfall or by the diligent hands of the Legion soldiers stationed nearby.

Tiber doesn’t notice, and certainly doesn’t appreciate it; he’s so used to the smooth cobbles and wide flagstones of the Imperial City that to him this seems like descending into an unexplored wilderness. The trees spread out overhead, blocking out the sky and much of the summer sun, and the stringy vegetation that hangs from their branches hide the path from view where it curves away ahead of him.

It’s quiet. After days on the water he’d become so used to the distant roar of waves that he’d stopped hearing them altogether, but here the very air seems to swallow up any sound except for a faint melodic humming of something that could have been birds or insects. His own footsteps seem to barely reach his ears.

The vegetation becomes sparser as the path takes on a subtle incline and rises above the level of the swamp. The terrain slowly changes, reeds giving way to grass, and then to patches of bare earth that eventually become rocky outcrops as he climbs higher. At this point it’s definitely uphill: the slope of the path is still shallow, but already the muscles in his thighs and calves are screaming at him, and his breath is coming shorter and shorter. He carries on a little longer, pushing himself with each step and telling himself he can make it just a little further, but eventually his legs refuse to obey him and he’s forced to stop, collapsing onto the grassy tuft atop a ledge of rock.

He looks back at where he’s come.

From his new elevation he can see over the trees to the water, and the island’s coast stretches as far as he can see in either direction. He can tell where Seyda Need is - not by the cluster of squat stone houses, which all but been swallowed up by the trees, nor from the small shacks slouching by the shallows, which at this distance are barely distinguishable from the muddy ground – but rather from the top of the lighthouse the peeking out right at the water’s edge.

The small settlement is some distance below him, but still distressingly close given the effort it’s taken to come just this far.

His time in the Imperial Prison has left him weak.

He’d known it, intellectually. Even though it had been gradual, he’d been able to see that he was getting thinner, the muscles of his arms and legs shrinking to nothing as he sat in his cell with hunger constantly clawing at his belly. But it’s different to feel the new limitation of his body now that he’s otherwise free. They’ve stolen his strength from him, along with those years of his life that he’ll never get back.

He fishes a strip of dried meat out of the bag and sticks one end in him mouth like a pipe, working at it with his teeth. What else has he lost? Is he ever going to be the same person he was before? A horrible thought hits him.

Heart suddenly pounding, he brings one hand in front of him and focuses. He learned to do this when he was a child, on his own and completely by accident, as naturally as learning to walk. Surely it’s not something he can have forgotten?

Pushing down the panic, he concentrates. If he had to describe what he was doing, he’d say it was like using an extra limb to press a lever, one hidden just out of sight around the edge of the visible world. The position of his fingers is necessary to guide him to it, but ultimately it’s his mind that pushes the switch…

He could almost cry in relief when a small flame appears at his fingertips.

He’s not been able to use his magic for three whole years; the cells in the Imperial City prison had been warded, completely cutting him off from his magika and squashing any attempt at spellcasting.

He can feel his magika now as he channels it into the fire in his hand. It’s almost painful, in a good way, like the strain using a muscle after being still for too long. But he can also feel how little of it he has to give; in this, too, he’s become weak.

He wonders if his mind and soul have become weak as well. Suddenly resolved not sit around for too long, he pushes himself back up to his feet.

He’s not going to let the imperials have this victory over him, and the only way he’s going to regain his strength is through perseverance. Pausing only to sling his bag back over his shoulder, he starts up back along the road.

The whole situation confuses him.

If all they wanted was to force work out of him, there were a dozen ore mines around Heartland that used prisoners. A sentence of hard labour could have had him spending years underground, and if he survived long enough to be released he would have emerged half-blind, crippled with rot-lung and fit only for begging.

Instead they had sent him to Morrowind at the Empire’s expense; he’d been guarded the whole way here by at least three soldiers, and even if those infantrymen had been headed for the east anyway, they could have travelled faster without the prison wagon.

Briefly, he wonders if he’s been sent here under the mistaken belief that they’re deporting him back to his homeland, but the idea is ridiculous. They’d known who he was; his name, age, and race had been on record from before he left the Temple, and from that they would have barely had to dig to find out that he was born in the Imperial city and had no known family. No ties to anywhere else.

Why, then, transport him all this way at their own cost?

There had to be people here already who could work for them, so why did they need him, specifically? Because he was a dark elf? He hardly passed as a native. If his race is what saved him from the gallows then he’s grateful for it, but that doesn’t mean he’s not outraged at the idea of being used that way.

Maybe they’d chosen him because they thought they could threaten him into compliance, that with no friends here he would be more easily to manipulate. But surely there were others in the same position.

The sun is warm, and Tiber’s muscles continue to burn as he climbs the slope. He forces his feet to keep moving, one in front of the other, dragging himself uphill one step at a time.

His mind drifts back to the package in his bag. He wonders why they’ve given him so much free range right away by trusting him to deliver it, and then the obvious answer arrives; it’s a test. It would explain the lack of information. They don’t trust him yet, and they’re waiting to see what he does when given a simple task to complete.

As much as he hates the idea of playing along, he also hates the idea of looking useless, or of falling for a stupidly obvious trap.

His feet falter for a moment. Perhaps he should have taken the silt strider after all. That might be what he’d been _supposed_ to do, and it’s not too late to turn around and go back to Seyda Neen, to pay for transport instead. But they hadn’t given him a time limit, or any indication there was a rush. How long will they wait before they decide he’s failed?

This route will only be extra day, barely even time to send a message ahead to tell this Cosades man when to expect him. He’ll set out early tomorrow and get to Balmora by the evening, and everything will be fine.

He continues, onwards and upwards. Each time he crests the top of a hill, another, ever taller hill appears a little further on.

Then suddenly, there’s no more. He’s reached the top of the ridge.

A wonderfully cool breeze hits him as he stops to look out over the next valley. Below him are a series of gently rolling hills, and behind them a sparkling lake stretches out into the distance.

But the most noticeable part of the landscape is the huge mountain that dominates the skyline to the north. Even though the weather is clear and sunny elsewhere, the top of that mountain is wreathed in dark clouds that reach far up into the sky.

Tiber stands there for a while, taking in the view and doing his best to commit it to memory.

~

As opposed to the journey upwards, the trip downhill is easy.

The vegetation is noticeably different on the side, richer and darker. He spots the occasional bit of wildlife; a pale grey insect the size of a cat wanders across the path in front of him, completely ignoring his presence, and at one point some kind of giant maggot starts crawling towards him out of the sparse undergrowth.

The latter of these had been surprisingly fast for something with no legs, but all he’d had to do was jog for a little bit and it had quickly given up chase.

Further into the valley he can see trees scattered around, some of them strangely squat with broad, flat canopies, and it’s only as he gets nearer that he realises they’re not trees at all.

He’d known about giant mushrooms, but hadn’t quite believed they’d be this big. He stops at the first one he passes, wandering off the path to stand underneath the impossibly broad cap and to cautiously touch the thick stem. It feels like slightly spongy wood.

He sees more and more of them as he descends, until they stop being remarkable.

As he continues down a cluster of building appear, peaking out between the foothills and the edge of the lake, and he decides it’s time to make himself look a bit more presentable.

Although he hasn’t seen a soul since he set off from Seyda Neen, Tiber ducks off the path and behind some rocks to ensure his privacy. He pulls his new clothes out of his bag and lays them carefully on the dry grass before stripping off his old attire.

His new pants are a dark russet brown; loose around the thighs, gathered at the knee, and close fitted at the ankle making them easy to tuck back into his boots. Before putting the new shirt on, he takes the old sackcloth one, dampens it with a splash of water from his flask, and uses it to scrub at his face, neck and armpits, getting off at least a little of the dirt and sweat.

He leaves off the blue woollen jacket; it’s warm out here in the sun, and he still has a way to walk before he gets to town.

The clothes are soft with age, and the fabric feels nice against his skin. He hadn’t realised how much the roughness of the sackcloth had been irritating him until now. But more than that, he feels an increased sense of freedom, like he’s throwing off the final trappings of his captivity.

~

A few more uneventful hours later, he reaches Pelagiad.

He’d eventually made it down from the hills onto the main road, where he’d since passed both an Imperial soldier on patrol, and a pair of other dark elves going in the opposite direction, who had nodded at him in acknowledgement of a fellow traveller but otherwise kept their distance.

Pelagiad itself is a farming town, barely more than a village but for the small fort by the lake. As he’d got nearer Tiber had passed nothing but small stone building and lots and lots of farmland with unfamiliar crops.

Eventually a path had split off to the right, and by following it he’d reached something of a main street, lined either side with houses and shops. And most importantly, a tavern. The prospect of a drink and somewhere to rest for a while and is irresistible, he makes a beeline for the front door.

~

A few minutes later, a cup of cheap wine in hand, Tiberius heads over to a small table tucked away in the corner of the inn and slides into the chair nearest the wall. The main room of the inn is large, but the warm wood panelling makes it feel cosy and welcoming. It’s a bit too early for the day’s workers to be arriving and the room is mostly empty, but Tiber’s not really in the mood to talk to anyone just yet. There’s something else he wants to do first, and it require a bit of privacy.

He takes a sip of his drink. It’s some kind of local brew made from rice, and it tastes sour and earthy, with a slight sweet aftertaste. Mostly it just tastes like alcohol, and that’s good enough for him. He sets it off to the side, where he won’t risk knocking it over.

Checking first to make sure nobody’s paying attention to him, Tiber takes the parcel out of his bag and places it on the table in front of him. He studies it carefully, turning the plain leather envelope over in his hands. It’s about the size of a book, and from the thickness and the weight, and what he can feel through the leather, it seems to just contain sheets of paper. There aren't any lumps that would indicate other objects.

Just as before, he can see nothing that would let someone know that he’d opened it, at least if he’s careful. The leather cord holding it closed has left an imprint where it digs into the sides, but all he’ll have to do is make sure he lines it up when he re-ties it and nobody would know.

He takes another sip of his rice wine. Is it worth the risk just to state his curiosity? It _could_ be nothing, just boring imperial minutiae, but there’s the chance it has information in about him, and why he’s been sent here.

If he doesn’t open it he may never find out, and this is the best place to do it.

Damn them. If there’s something it there about him, he deserves to know.

His hands shaking slightly, he works the knotted cord open – taking a careful mental note of how it was tied - and puts it aside, before gently folding back the leather flap and sliding the small stack of paper out.

He unfolds the first page and then hisses in frustration. It’s completely unreadable.

What he’s looking at is a jumble of letters. He scans them, trying to find something recognisable, but it all looks like random nonsense. He doesn’t think it’s another language. A code, then.

He looks at the next page. It’s all the same.

If they’ve bothered to make it unreadable, though, there might actually be something in here worth learning. Tiber’s not entirely unfamiliar with codes, some of the imperial city smugglers used them to send messages. However, he has no experience in trying to break them, and no idea where he would even start.

Even if he wanted to try, he has no idea how long it would take and he doesn’t have the time to sit around. He’ll be walking all of tomorrow, and then he’ll have to hand everything over once he reaches Balmora.

He’ll have to hand _this_ copy over, at least.

He puts the page to the side, and pulls the paper and quill he’d bought out of his bag. This isn’t what he’d be planning to use them for, instead intending to make notes, maybe a brief journal of sorts. He doesn’t have a lot of paper, but there are only a few pages and the letters are in large uppercase that takes up a lot of space; if he writes as small as he can he should be able to fit it all on.

He lays the first blank page out next the coded one, and starts copying.

It’s slow work. His fingers are a clumsy from not having held a pen for so long and his handwriting is slow and messy at first, but he eventually gets back into the flow of it. It’s difficult to copy something down that makes no sense, since he has to go letter by letter instead of being able to just rewrite words and phrases, but eventually he has all of it, two full pages filed on both sides of cramped, nonsensical script.

After one last check through he puts all the original pages back into the envelope, making sure they’re in the same order, and ties it back up as though it had never been opened. Done.

The copies he rolls up, and hides back in his bag with the few remaining sheets of paper.

~

The tavern had filled up while he was working, a collection of humans, elves, and one or two beastfolk spread out around the room either taking up the chairs or standing at the bar. At some point the smell of cooking had wafted up from the lower rooms, and around him several people are having plates of food brought to their tables.

He’s so used to being hungry that he’d forgotten that it’s something normal people do something about.

A little less than half an hour later he’s sitting in front of a feast.

There’s a plate of small fish, fried whole with onions and peppers, crispy scales on the outside and moist flesh on the inside. Alongside it is a huge bowl of cooked vegetables; fried beans and onions, spiced and sautéed carrots and squash. And there’s fresh bread, thickly sliced, soft in the middle and crusty on the outside.

He takes a bite of fish, feeling the tiny bones crunch gloriously between his teeth, and immediately follows it with a large chunk of the bread piled high with the fried vegetables. It’s oily and salty, just how he likes it, and it’s so good he struggles to remember to breathe while he bolts down his first few mouthfuls.

It doesn’t take long before he’s starting to feel uncomfortably full, and is forced to stop with little less than half the food still left in front of him on the plates. Maybe he should have ordered less, but he has trouble caring. It will make a good lunch for tomorrow if he can get the publican to wrap it up for him.

He looks up and over at the bar, and does a double take. Standing at the counter talking to the publican, her back turned towards him, is Rabisha.

He stares at the back of his khajiit friend’s head, his mind churning.

She’s here, she’s alive. They just sent her to Morrowind, like they did him. And if she’s okay, what about Cirellion, did they do the same with him? Is there a chance he’s still-

The bartender notices him staring and looks up, and the khajiit turns around to follow the other elf’s gaze and Tiber’s heart shatters.

It’s not her.

Just a stranger who looks a bit like her.

Tiber looks down at the table, blinking back tears. Stupid. He’d been stupid to get his hopes up like that.

He looks up again, and sees with a panic that the khajiit woman is approaching his little table.

“Does this one know you?” she asks. “Ahnassi saw you watching her, but she does not recognise you.”

“Ah, no, no.” Tiber hurries to say. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. A friend.”

“Hmmm, a ladyfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

“I hope this friend is pretty, for Ahnassi to be mistaken for her. Were you expecting to see her here?”

“No, I-“ Tiber’s throat feels tight, ad his eyes are stinging again. “I wasn’t expecting to see her, no.”

“Where is this friend, then?”

“She’s dead” Tiber says.

Ahnassi doesn’t answer for a moment. Then: “I’m sorry. This one should not have teased.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t know.”

The khajiit pauses for a moment. “Would you mind if this one sits here?”

Tiber shakes his head, and rubs at one eye before and of the dampness can turn into actual tears. Ahnissi takes the chair next to him.

“Are you new to Pelagiad?”

“Yeah” he answers. “Actually I’m just on my way to Balmora.”

“Ah. This one sees a lot of travellers come through here, although many of them are soldiers on the way to fort Moonmoth.”

“You live here, then?”

“Yes, Ahnissi has a house in town.”

Tiber fiddles with his empty cup. “..My friend’s name was Rabisha. I used to live with her and another friend in the Imperial City.”

“Ahnissi is sorry.”

Tiber opens his mouth and immediately closes it again, unable to find any words.

Ahnissi continues. “This one has been to Cyrodill before, but not to the Imperial City. What is it like there?”

Tiber opens his mouth to reply, and again falters. How do you describe your home when you have little else to compare it too?

“It’s okay, I guess” he says after a moment. ”Different from here. From what I’ve seen so far, anyway.”

“You’ve not been on Vvardenfell long?”

“Vardenfell?”

Ahnissi looks at him strangely. “Here, the island of Vvardenfell.”

“Oh. Right. Vvardenfell, in Morrowind, yeah?” He’d somehow forgotten the northern island had its own name. “I actually only got here today.”

“Oh. Well, this one hopes you find your visit here pleasant. Morrowind can be difficult for outsiders, even dunmer. Perhaps especially dunmer”

“Thanks. I don’t actually know how long I’ll be here. I might be permanent. I don’t know.”

“You don’t intend to return home eventually?”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be allowed. By my employer, I mean. I got sent here for work.”

“Ah, well it is good that you will not have to search for employment, it can be difficult.”

“Yeah. I hope not. I mean, they’ve given me the one job but it’s just a short one, I don’t know if there will be more jobs afterwards.”

Ahnissi frowns. “That seems a bit cruel, to send you so far without telling you. What will you do if there is not?”

Tiber shrugs.

Ahnissi leans in a bit closer. “Listen, this one will tell you this because you seem nice, and also like you could maybe use a little help. There is a corner club in Balmora called the South Wall. Go there sometime, ask for Habisi, and tell her this one sent you. Even if you do not end up needing the work, it is a good thing to have friends in a new place, yes?”

“Yeah. I mean, okay, I will. Thanks.”

She leans forward to pat him on the arm and then, after exchanging a few more words, excuses herself to go back to the bar, leaving Tiber feeling very, very alone.

~

He leaves, eventually, with the remains of his meal carefully wrapped up in some broad leaves and tied with twine. Even at this late hour, it’s still light at this time of year, the sun only just having disappeared over the horizon. Azura’s hour, he thinks, if you’re into that kind of thing.

He’s feeling surprisingly unsteady from just the few cups of wine; it’s gone to his head more than it used to. It’s been a long day, and he needs to rest up for the longer journey tomorrow.

It was tempting to book a room at the inn, but he’s sure it’s not cheap, and the idea of sleeping out in the open actually seems quite pleasant. The air is mild, although it’s cooling now that the sun has gone, and he’ll be glad of his blanket on top of the jacket he's now wearing. Not wanting to be disturbed, he head out of the town back to find somewhere to set up camp, following the main street back to the road.

His slight tipsiness gives him the energy to walk for a bit, numbing his aching legs and feet, and so he continues along the path for a while. He may as well make some distance just so he has less of a walk tomorrow.

An hour or so later, with the cooling air helping to ward off the effects of the wine, he starts to realise tired and aching he really is.

The giant mushrooms seem as good a shelter as any, and so he keeps an eye out for any that seem suitable. A few minutes later he sees a small one, a few hundred feet of the road, and turns off to head towards it. It’s only shoulder height and so will provide good protection from the breeze, as well as hopefully keeping off some of the damp.

He crawls underneath it, puts his bag to one side, and begins laying out his bedroll. The ground beneath is bare loam, soft and springy, and when he lies down with his blanket wrapped snug around his shoulders, it’s barely moments before he’s fast asleep.

~

Tiber was wrenched awake by hands grabbing at his shoulders.

He’d never quite got the hang of sleeping lightly, far too prone to the type of dreams that clung on even as he climbed back to the waking world. Sometimes it had been a blessing, allowing him to escape the cold and the discomfort of his cell, but at times like this it left him vulnerable.

Disorientated, he cried out, shrinking in on himself and trying to wrap his arms around his body. Strong hands took hold of his arms and forced them out in front of him; one of the Imperial guards who had woken him fastened a heavy pair of manacles around his wrists, while another closed a similar pair around his ankles, tethering his feet together with a short chain.

Muddled by sleep, his mind raced to make sense of what was happening. This was it, surely; after all this time they’d changed their mind, and finally decided to send him to the gallows. He began to shake, so hard that the chains on his wrists rattled and one of the guards snapped at him to stop, but he was too seized by his own fear.

As they marched him out of the Imperial City prison he caught his last glimpse of Dreth, standing silently in the shadows of his own cell.

The guards took him up out of the lower levels, but instead of going towards the walled yard where the gibbet stood waiting, they passed through the front offices - the ones Tiber hadn’t seen since he’d first arrived all that time ago - and then out through the main doors.

The sudden daylight blinded him. He stumbled on the steps, and would have tripped if not for the guard’s tight grip on his upper arm. He was still blinking the light out of his eyes by the time the guard had dragged him all the way across the courtyard, towards the back of the waiting carriage.

There was a sharp prod between his shoulder blades. “Get in, Prisoner.”

The guard’s voice sounded far away. Tiber’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears so loudly that it drowned out all other noise, and he barely remembered scrambling up into the back of the carriage, clumsy with his hands and feet chained together.

As he lowered himself down onto one of the benches, the back of the cart swung shut behind him.

~

Tiber is woken by pain.

For a few precious seconds he flails, not even sure whether it’s real or a dream, trying to push his assailant away with his hands but unable to lift his arms. Then adrenaline forces him fully awake.

There’s a rat barely a foot away from his face - the largest rat he’s ever seen – and it’s rearing back, lowering its wedge shaped head as it prepares to leap forward and bite him again.

He rolls out of the way as it lunges at him.

His blanket is tangled around his upper body, pinning his arms to his chest, and he has to struggle his way out of it before he can reach for his dagger. It’s where he left it, tucked under the edge of the bedroll, and its weight is comforting in his hand. He scoots backwards on his hands and knees, trying to get some distance between himself and the rodent.

The giant rat is circling him again. He manages to get his feet underneath him and rises to his full height, spreading his arms to make himself look as large possible.

He takes a deep breath.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Fuck off!”

The rodent startles at the noise, backing up and stilling, except for its head which weaves from side to side as it measures him up. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like his little show has deterred it because it starts inching forward.

He shouts at it again, just in case, but it’s already moving back towards him.

Cursing, he brings the dagger out in front of him, keeping his other arm up to protect his face. He’s not sure if it will jump up at him, or go for his ankles. There’s blood soaking into his shirt from a wound high up on his left arm.

Its teeth are not the only thing to be afraid of; its back feet are tipped with inch-long claws and a kick from the creature could hurt him just as badly as a bite. He’s seen rats attack smaller dogs that wandered into the imperial city sewers - seen how they latch on with their teeth and then rip the animal’s belly to shreds with their powerful back legs - and this rodent’s even bigger than the ones back home.

The rat moves. Tiber shuffles back and brings the dagger down towards the animal, but he’s too slow. The thing’s long front teeth sink onto his leg just above his boot, and both the pain of it and the animal’s weigh bring him back to the ground.

He screams as it drags him by the leg, its teeth tearing into the muscle. The two of them slide a little way down the hill, still locked together. The creature twists around to claw at his torso with its back foot, putting its body in reach of Tiber’s dagger. He stabs the blade into the rat’s side, again and again, and it screeches in pain but still doesn’t let go.

He keeps stabbing, and finally its jaws loosen.

He wrenches his dagger out of its body, and kicks its head away with his uninjured leg before moving backwards into a crouch.

The rat is still alive, but barely. As he watches it writhes on its side, gasping, feet scrabbling in the dirt. Tiber keeps his distance, not wanting to risk getting close enough to finish it off quickly.

There’s blood flowing freely out of the wound on his leg, soaking his pant leg, and as he waits he presses his hand down over the wound to try to slow down the bleeding. He stays there watching, getting his breath back, until he’s sure the rat is dead.

With a relieved groan, he sits down fully on the wet grass.

The leg wound is the first priority. Trying to gather his wits, he focuses his energy into a healing spell and presses his hand over the wound, but the first time he loses concentration and the magic slips ineffectively through his fingers. He takes a moment to calm himself, forces himself to breathe slowly. His hands are starting to shake now that the fight is over.

The second time he does manage to focus, and successfully pushes the healing energy into his leg. Tentatively, he takes the pressure off. It’s nowhere near enough to heal it properly, but the puncture wound has at least stopped gushing blood.

There’s only a small hole in the fabric where the rat’s teeth went through, but the whole lower leg is stained a darker brown. Carefully, he rolls the fabric up to his knee to get a good look at the wound. It’s small but deep, the area around it already looking red and inflamed. He’s not going to be able to walk on it the way it is currently, not without making it worse.

He casts another healing spell, one with more power in it this time. The edges of the wound seal together into a thin purple line, and the inflammation subsides. He feels the new scar with his fingers; it’s not completely healed, but it should hold together.

There are more injuries to deal with. Wincing, he shrugs off the jacket and pulls his shirt off over his head. As with the leg wound, there’s little damage to his clothing except the blood, however underneath his chest and neck are covered in scratches, most of them small enough to ignore but one or two of them also bleeding. The bite mark on his arm is shallow, and realizes the rat must have sunk its teeth in through the padding of the blanket. He’s lucky it hadn’t gone for his exposed face or throat.

Just the small amount of mage-craft he’s done already has left him drained, and he reckons he only has enough energy left for one proper healing spell, or two of the more minor ones. It’s a far cry from the stamina he had back when he was working in the temple infirmary, spending all day healing. Even after he left, he’d had plenty of opportunity to keep up the practice in the Waterfront.

He’s reluctant to exhaust his power completely, in case he needs another spell later before his magika has had time re-accumulate. However, the wounds on his chest are stinging horrible, and so he casts one more minor spell, trying to focus on both his chest and arm at the same time. All except the deepest scratches recede into nothing, and bite wound seals up until it’s just a scabbed dent, but it leaves him feeling wrung out like a sponge.

Already the day is off to a bad start.

He redresses, and climbs back up the slope towards his little camp and assesses the damage. His blanket is a few feet away in the dirt, and he picks that up first; it’s got a bit of soil and some wet grass stuck to it from where he’d thrashed around to get out of it, but it all brushes off easily enough. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders to ward off the early morning chill, he sits down on the rest of the bedroll. His bag has also been moved, and there are a couple of small holes in the canvas where the rat had been at it with its teeth. He thinks it must have been attracted by the smell of the food.

Thankfully it hadn’t persisted, and everything inside is unharmed – the clothes, the package for Cosades and the copy he’d made, the leftover fish and bread. Perhaps the rat had decided that elf would make a better meal.

Tiber glances down at where its furry body is lying, and wonders if he could turn it into breakfast.

He’s had rat meat before, although never cooked it himself. The meat had a greasy, gamy taste that took a lot of seasoning to hide, but it’s perfectly edible, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

However, now that he’s seeing it as a whole creature, the thought of cutting it up and preparing its flesh is thoroughly unappetising. Ultimately, he leaves it.

Packing up his bedroll, he considers his options. He could head back to Pelagiad to take a day recovering, but it’s not really something he can afford, either in time or gold.

He tests his weight on his previously injured leg; there’s a dull twinge from the calf muscle but nothing that would stop him from walking, and he’s healed it enough that it won’t get any worse. He hopes.

If it gets too bad, he can probably muster up one more spell.

He has enough food for another day or so, and a full flask of water. He’ll press on, take it slow if he needs to.

Everything will be fine.


End file.
